melting stones
by fabricated fantasies
Summary: She's a pretty metal princess with a diamond heart, but she loved them once. /or, the six great loves of Dominique Weasley, told in snapshots.
1. DominiqueLysander

For the Fanfiction F A C T O R Competition ;; dedicated to Kat.

"It is difficult to know at what moment love begins; it is less difficult to know that it has begun."

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

* * *

**dominique and lysander, taking chances.**

_fifteen_

* * *

She stands on the edge of the dancing crowd, her gaze flicking from figure to figure. Amidst a swarm of moving bodies, she is alone. Her admirers have been dismissed for the night; it may be the Ministry Ball, where famous heroes are celebrated, but tonight she wants to be anything but famous. Anyone but Dominique.

She smiles tightly as he arrives at her side, her lips stretched into a thin red-lipstick grin and her blue eyes too bright with fake happiness and laughter. Though most of the dancers wear fanciful masks, as has become tradition over the last several years, his face is bare, exposing his pale skin to the light.

"Domi," he acknowledges, his hair artfully messed up like he's spent the last ten minutes with a girl in a nearby broom cupboard, the girl's hands in his hair and his lips on her skin with the passion of love dancing around them both. She hates herself for wishing she was that girl.

"Don't call me that," she snaps, the laughter disappearing from her eyes for a brief moment, though she soon composes herself, and her lips curl in a smile once again. She doesn't ask how he recognises her underneath the mess of curls that adorn her head, and the delicate mask that covers her face.

"Calm down, _Domi_," he stresses the nickname, eyes alight with laughter. 'It's just me. You don't need to be like this with me, remember?" And she remembers, she does – promises made in the summer before she goes to Hogwarts, that they will never ever be anything less than friends. Maybe it's this long ago promise that makes her let him be around her. Anyone else would be immediately humiliated by her, if they dared to act like this towards the ice queen of Hogwarts.

"Lysander, leave," she commands regally, noting a dark haired boy watching the two of them closely. Without having to look at him any longer, she knows that the boy's hazel eyes will be narrowed in anger as he scrutinizes them. Her boyfriend has always been the jealous type, and she gives him plenty to be jealous of - she's never been one to hold back when she wants to flirt, and he bores her more than she loves him. She makes a mental note to break up with him as soon as possible, and tries to ignore the persistent thoughts that tell her there's another reason why she wants to be single.

"As you wish, my lady," he responds with a bow, before he turns and disappears into the crowd. She smiles, surprised by his quick acquiescence, and composes herself enough to accept the hand of the next fragile boy who asks her to dance. She'll try not to break him.

Many dances and trodden on toes later, she turns to greet her next partner, and is surprised by a pair of lips kissing her neck. His lips rest on her neck, near her ear, and she tenses. No one has ever tried to be intimate with her before, not like this, and certainly not without her permission, though Lysander has never been one to follow the rules.

He spins her neatly into his arms, and when he speaks, he doesn't offer her pretty compliments, or whisper manipulative words into her ear, as so many other boys have done. Instead, he tells her that his previous partner had an Australian accent, and attempts to copy it. She smiles, because his intention to make her laugh is so transparent, and besides, he really is kind of funny.

"So, Dominique?" he asks after a brief moment of silence. Lysander is the kind of person who cannot stand silence, no matter who he is with.

"Yes, Lysander?" she replies, a tint of laughter to her voice that wasn't there before he came to dance with her. Somehow, in these brief moments under the dull light, with his laughter in her ear and a smile upon her face, she has come to realise that it's nice to be with him again. _Best friends forever_, her mind whispers.

"Will you talk to me tomorrow? Properly talk, not the kind of talking that we usually do, where I try to get you to say something real and you brush me off with the same words you give everyone else." His eyes are intent on hers, a strange light burning in them which is fiercer than she has ever seen him look before. She says yes, of course she does, because she has long since discovered she can never say no to him when he asks her this way.

"I'll meet you in the Owlery," she says, because it's out of the way and practically deserted on a Sunday, and she can spend time with him without having to look over her shoulder for anyone in her social circle. They wouldn't approve of her spending time with a boy like Lysander, who isn't Slytherin, isn't pureblood, and can't lie to save himself.

The music stops, and the crowd turns to applaud the musicians as the dancing ends for the night. She kisses him swiftly on the cheek, and prepares to melt into the horde of people rushing for the entrance to the banquet hall. "Thank you. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Hey." He stops her with a touch to her wrist, his voice an almost whisper that sends shivers racing along her spine. "I look forward to it," he adds, his voice hoarser, with an edge of something that she doesn't want to admit it herself just yet.

She nods, her lips tingling where they kissed his skin, and is swallowed by the crowd.

The magic of the ball has ended - for tonight.

* * *

So, this is a collection for Dominique - one of my favourite nextgen characters - and the six people she loves in her lifetime. If you have any suggestions about who these people might be, I'd be happy to hear them! Or maybe there's a part you loved/hated - I'd really like to know where I should improve.

Each chapter will begin with Dominique's age, and a quick description of who else is featuring in this snapshot. Obviously, there will be six chapters in this collection.

Thanks in advance! :)

-Listen


	2. DominiqueFred

As always, dedicated to Kat.

"A real friend is one who walks in when the rest of the world walks out."

- Walter Winchell

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**dominique and fred, reconnecting.**

_nineteen_

* * *

She stands before the windowsill, one hand against the glass, watching rain patter down just beyond her reach. Next to her, a sheaf of parchment is scattered over the rest of the window sill, and as she watches, a piece slips through the tiny slit at the bottom. She doesn't even try to reach it, just watches with hooded eyes as it is torn apart by the pelting rain.

A knock sounds from the doorway, and she doesn't bother turning around. She knows who it is – he's been here every day for weeks on end, being cheerful and happy and everything Dominique doesn't want to be. Not now, not ever.

"Fred," she greets emotionlessly, her eyes tracing a single crystalline raindrop make its way down the glass window until it is crushed against the wooden pane. "If you've come here to ask me to come downstairs, _again_, you already know what my answer is." At this, her eyes flash darkly in brief pain, remembering exactly why she has shut herself in the attic for the last month. Fred, watching her strawberry blonde hair fall down her back in grimy, tangled waves, doesn't see this.

"Dominique…" he sighs, looking at her and clearly not knowing what to say. "Lysander wouldn't have wanted-"

"Don't!" she interrupts. "Don't use his name, and don't tell me what he would have wanted. You don't know what he would have wanted," she says, her voice dangerously close to her previous icy perfection, the one that she tried to squash because Lysander loved her better when she didn't fake her emotions. Fred doesn't deserve to use the dead boy's name, no one does, because Lysander's dead and he's left her all alone. Now he's an angel in heaven rather than on earth, and _no one_ should say his name. It hurts too much.

"Anyone who loves you would want the same thing, Dominique, and don't tell me that Lysander didn't love you, because you know he did," he pushes on, despite her sharp intake of breath at her dead boyfriend's name, and despite the crack in his own voice, because he loves her too, and she barely even notices that he's there. She's family, despite their differences, and he know she's hurting. He just doesn't know how to fix her.

"Of course he loved me. We were getting married, did you know that? But of course you wouldn't – you're far too busy with your real family. You didn't have time for the middle sister that no one loved enough to answer her phone calls," she responds, finally turning away from the window. Her eyes, made more prominent by lack of sleep, are filled with pain, and she sees Fred shudder away as she takes a single step closer.

"I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" She takes another step, the pain swirling in her eyes slowly being suffocated by disbelief and anger, her thin, dirty nightdress clinging to her like a second skin. "You're all sorry _now_, but when I needed you, no one answered. There's too many people in this _family_, and yet, no one was there to answer my call. You _left me_," she whispers hoarsely, the words torn from her threat as if she has kept them back too long. She wants to cry, to scream, but she doesn't dare to. Fred might be her favourite cousin, but right now he's just another person who has gone against her, and even three years of playing somewhat nice hasn't robbed her of her past ways, ways that are so deeply ingrained in her that they might as well be etched on her skin.

He cringes, and she smirks in furious triumph, before she remembers that there is no one to share this victory with. She left her admirers behind when she stopped needing them, and Lysander, who promised to love her more than her entourage ever could, is dead. _Dead._ The word rings in her ears, and she falters, sliding an arm around her waist as she steps back.

They are silent for a moment, eyes locked, and she hugs herself tightly as if she can physically hold her splintering heart together.

"I know, okay? I – we," he stumbles over his words, and he shakes his head as if to clear his thoughts. He was never the charming boy who always knew what to say – Fred bumbles along, trying to do what he can, and almost always messing it up somehow. "There's only one phone in our family, you know? Just one, at the Burrow, so that when you and – when you guys went on your big trip, you could talk to us without having to wait for owls to arrive, and without using the Floo, because you hate it so much."

"Which excuses what you did?" she asks, arm still firm around her ribs, her expression sill hard. She will not forgive him just yet, and will possibly never forgive him. Her memories are all too clear in her mind, far too clear to forgive and forget – the tree branch falling, Lysander stepping away from it, grinning cheekily at her. His eyes, hazel like the wood of the trees around them, like the hair of the tribe of centaurs hunting near them. His voice, saying that they're safe, that they're fine, hidden up in this tree, telling her how amazing it is that they can see this happen. A rustle from a branch above them. A stray arrow. His shocked cry cut short, and the yells of the centaurs melding with her panicked screams like a chorus of twisted angels.

She remembers waiting until the centaurs left, her new phone in her hand, her fingers pressing the numbers like they were lifelines that could make the colour return to Lysander's much paler skin. The next memories blur together, like a story missing a beginning and an end, leaving only a mismatch of middle that doesn't have any context to make it make sense. Just running, knocking on Fred's front door that leads to an empty house, and finally, finally, slumping against the door while the sun shines down.

"-minique? Dominique?" Her memories are invaded by a voice speaking her name, and she looks up to see Fred peering at her concernedly, his forehead scrunched up against his chocolate hair. She tries to look unaffected, as if she had ignored him on purpose, to make him feel concern for her, but she can't quite manage it. Delving into her memories again, reliving them, has left her feeling drained and weak.

"Did you need anything else?" she asks, pulling together the last of her strength and hoping that he'll take the not-so-subtle hint and leave her be. She doesn't need people, she doesn't need him - though admittedly, if she had to choose one person to invade her space, Fred would be her first choice. They had been close, as children, before she left for Hogwarts the year after he did and was sorted into Slytherin, not Gryffindor like him. They had gotten married, she remembers, the sharp crease in between her eyebrows softening a little. A fake marriage in the garden of the Burrow, orchestrated by Lily and Hugo, who had decided that they needed to recreate Dean Thomas and his new bride's wedding, since they hadn't been allowed to go. Strangely, Fred and Dominique had strongly resembled Dean and Katarina in appearance.

"No..." Fred trails off, speaking slowly, though he doesn't move an inch towards the door. His eyes flit from her face, to the photographs scattered over the floor, to the sheaf of parchment on the wide windowsill. "What's that?" he asks in apparent interest, jerking his head over at the window.

"Does it really matter?" she asks in return, her response lightning quick like a striking snake, and she swears she sees the corners of his mouth lift in a smile for a moment, before flattening back against his skin.

"No. But I want to know," he replies, and this time the smile lasts for more than a moment. She feels ten years old again, Fred's charismatic smile still lopsided, her eyes only tinged with coldness, not overwhelmed by them. She skips from emotion to emotion now, like when she was ten years old and the tiniest thing could hurt her, and the smallest thing restore her happiness.

"They're - they're sketches of the bridesmaid dress. I only wanted one, and Lysander only wanted Lorcan to stand up for him, anyway," she explains, the pain shooting through her heart hurting the tiniest bit less, and, looking at Fred, she feels for the first time as if she might be okay again. Not now not soon - but maybe someday.

"Can I see?" he asks, and she wonders - wonders why he seems to care, wonders why she's trusting him with anything after his betrayal, and she wonders why she's forgiven him so easily. But maybe it's better to pretend for now, she thinks, and snatch this stolen moment of reclaimed friendship while she has the chance. Ice queen Dominique still lurks below her skin, and she can return at any moment, if she wants her to.

So she nods, and he crosses the room and picks up the parchments, which are frighteningly delicate in his large hands. He nods in appreciation, and she explains the intricacies of the drawings, pointing out a pattern here or a detail there, and for a while she forgets why she's in her room at Shell Cottage rather than living in her and Lysander's apartment, and stops remembering why Fred is here beside her when they haven't spoken properly in years.

" - wanted yellow, but I said that it would look terrible with Laura's colouring, so then he suggested blue. It looks fine, and Lysander's happy," she tells him, the smallest of smiles gracing her face. The pain in her heart hurts a little less every time she says his name, but at the look of shock on Fred's face, she remembers exactly what she had said, her face crumpling. She had forgotten. She had forgotten that Lysander was _dead_, because she was so caught up in being selfish, in relishing the slowly strengthening connection between her and Fred, that she had forgotten why that link had had the opportunity to reappear again. She could forget Lysander - she had to remember him, because he needed her to remember. She didn't want to smile without him, because it was unfair that no one would ever see his mischievous smile again. She didn't want to dance again, or love again, or live again, because he loved those things, but he would never do them again. It wasn't fair.

Her heart seems to swell with unshed tears, and she bites her lip hard, fighting against the shuddering breaths and shiny eyes that threaten to take over her body. She has made through these past few weeks without crying once, because she would not seem weak, even to herself, and the tears will not win.

"Dominique?" Fred asks, yet again, in a sympathetic voice that reminds her of another boy who once cared about her that much - a boy who is dead, dead, _dead_. As if her body is connected to him saying her name, she crumples, sinking down to the floor in a flurry of tangled limbs and skirts and skin. The sound of her own thumping heart roars fiercely in her ears, and she notices dully that she's crying, after so long resisting.

She feels him sink to the floor beside her, and she clutches him like a lifeline. She is the drowning girl in the middle of a summer storm, and he is the kind-hearted sailor who throws her a rope and drags her from the sea. Her nails, once polished and painted, now ragged and short from all the times she's bitten them to keep from crying, make scars on his cocoa skin. He never says a word, simply gathers her up in his arms and murmurs words, words that sound vaguely comforting, though she doesn't reognise what they are over the frantic beating of her own heart and the sobs torn painfully from her chest.

They stay there, one girl drowning in a summer storm, and one boy trying to save her. She will never be wholly the same, as splintered as she is but he will try to fix her. Maybe one day he'll be able to tell her that none of his reasons excuse not being there for her when she needed him. But she needs him again now and this time he's determined not to make a mistake, because he's let her down so often before, as has she, and he's going to try to make things right.

They are just two people in a summer storm, hurting and comforting and reconnecting after too much time apart, as the rain falls down past a wooden windowsill.

* * *

Hey! I absolutely adored all the feedback from last time - it inspired me to write this addition a lot faster than it would have been otherwise. As always, if you have any suggestions about who the next love of Dominique could be, I'd be happy to hear them! And please mention anything that annoyed you about this chapter, or something that you loved.

Thanks in advance! =]

-Listen


	3. DominiqueLorcan

For the Fanfiction's Got Talent Competition ;; dedicated to Kat and many thanks to Rachel [Sara] for the beta job =]

* * *

"Some people come into our lives and quickly go. Some stay for awhile and leave footprints on our hearts. And we are never, ever the same."

-Unknown

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**dominique and lorcan, starting to believe.**

_twenty_

* * *

"Dominique? Lorcan and Lucy are here," Fred tells her, knocking at the door of her attic room. She's been spending less time in here than she once did, and she and Fred are certainly closer since that afternoon more than six months ago, but this room is her sanctuary. Here, she feels safe.

She nods and stands up, following Fred silently out of the room and down the stairs. Her heart beats a little too fast for her liking, but she keeps her face calm and smooth, having worked for the last couple of months on keeping her emotions completely in check again. She feels like a child learning to walk and talk – worse, like a person after a stroke, learning how to walk and talk for the second time. Before – everything seems to fit into two categories these days: before Lysander and after – she spent so long building up walls around her and having them tumble to the ground around her, the rising dust stinging her eyes and making her cry – making her weak, because the old queen Dominique never cried, not even around Lysander. She wonders for a moment whether she still regrets finally letting someone know her as she truly is, but finds that she can't. Even if the hole in her heart is never fixed, she finds it impossible to regret being with Lysander. But someday, someday, she wants that hole to fixed.

"Happy birthday, Dominique," someone says nearby, and she realises that somehow she has reached the bottom of the stairs and is now standing in front of Lucy and Lorcan.

"Her birthday isn't until tomorrow, Luce," Fred reminds their younger cousin gently, and Lucy nods gravely.

"I know," Lucy replies, and doesn't offer any further explanation. Lucy stares off into the distance at a point just above Dominique's shoulder, and she feels a shiver travel up her spine when she looks at the other girl's unfocused eyes. Lucy has always made her uncomfortable, like all her secrets are exposed in Lucy's sight, although her cousin might not even be looking at her.

Her gaze is wrenched away from Lucy when Lorcan tugs at a lock of hair just below his ear. It is a tiny movement, almost imperceptible, but Dominique knows it well – Lysander used to do just the same thing whenever he was thinking deeply about something. Her heart pangs, cracks and threatens to shatter, but she's almost used to it by now, and she notices dully that it hurts a little bit less this time. She can't decide whether this is good or bad.

Fred catches her eye and jerks his chin towards Lysander – no, not Lysander, _Lorcan_, she reminds herself, because the boys might be identical on the outside, but Lorcan is certainly not Lysander, and certainly not hers.

"Lorcan," she greets, her voice sounding detached and uncaring, and she winces internally, because she hasn't seen this boy in eight months, because Lysander is dead, dead, _dead_, and she retreated to her room and Lorcan moved in with Lucy in Wales. They were never close, really, her and Lorcan, because she was never interested in dreamer boys that knew more than they should and were in control when she didn't want them to be.

"Dominique," he responds, his tone considerably warmer than hers, but still dreamy. "Your hair looks amazing this morning – like a sun ray. Like a ray of sun. Don't you think, Lucy?" he asks, turning to the blonde, who shifts her burning gaze slightly to look at Dominique.

"Yes, quite right – the latter, I would think. A ray of sun," Lucy agrees, and Dominique resists the urge to touch her hair to check that it is perfectly smooth, though she doesn't see the difference between a 'ray of sun' and a 'sun ray'. They seem to understand what they're talking about, however.

"Come into the garden," Fred invites them, and the two follow him happily out the back door and down the sand hills into the mess of tangled grasses and shrubbery that pass for their garden these days. Victoire was the only one with any sort of tendency towards plants, and now that she's married Teddy, there's no one left to keep it from growing wild.

Lucy and Lorcan stop, as always, before the tiny grave where Dobby still rests, the haphazard letters striking against the weather-beaten headstone. The four stand in silence for a moment, before Fred and Dominique move on towards the low wooden bench surrounded by more twisted grass and weeds, the other pair following behind.

They spend the afternoon out there, the four of them, Lucy and Lorcan lost in their own world, but present just the same. Other family members join them quickly enough – James and Alice hand in hand, a sparkling ring upon her finger taking the attention away from Dominique's upcoming birthday. She feels a twinge of jealousy that she is no longer the centre of attention, but finds that it is only an echo of the past. She doesn't begrudge Alice her moment, since she's waited long enough for it, and feels like laughing when she thinks that Lysander would be proud of this realisation that she didn't have to be in the spotlight all the time. It goes unspoken, even in her mind, that of course he isn't around to appreciate it.

"I want to show you something," Lorcan says, appearing suddenly at her shoulder. It is dark, now; a sprinkling of stars shining down overhead, and as she watches, Louis summons the tiny outdoor lanterns from the shed and sets them alight like little globes of fire. Lorcan touches her wrist and gestures for her to follow, and she does. She trusts him implicitly for no other reason than his (familiar) soft brown eyes and the fact that he looks so much like _him_.

They reach a white fence on a sand dune that overlooks the strip of water next to Shell Cottage, and he stops, inclining his head upwards. "Look."

She copies his movement, and is perplexed when all she sees is a stretch of sky dotted with winking stars. Her eyes flick towards Lorcan, whose emotions play out over his face like flickering firelight. He seems starstruck, like all the beauty of the world is confined in that patch of sky, like he would love nothing better than to paint this scene over and over again. He feels her gaze and smiles in a way that would have seemed sleazy or overly charming on any other boy – a quirky half smile that promises everything.

She doesn't back away immediately, she doesn't turn and run, she doesn't freeze up and feel like she might crumble to dust like she has felt she would every time someone has looked at her like that in the past eight months. Every other boy has made her feel unworthy, cheap, like even a smile is cheating on her dead boy, however unwanted the smile is. Lorcan doesn't. Because, she starts to realise, Lorcan sees the beauty in everything. Even her. To him, she is just another partially painted canvas with more potential than most people realise, just like the stars above their heads. He will never be interested in her in the same way as any other boy would be, and the thought makes her sad, for whatever reason.

He could be the thing she needs, Dominique thinks, something beautiful and whole, someone who doesn't judge her for how her life has turned out – someone she hasn't broken yet, one way or another. Lorcan looks exactly like the boy that might still be hers, but he is different, pure in a way that Lysander never was, and maybe he could be the thing she needs to be herself again. Maybe she could learn to love him.

He steps towards her, and she thinks that he's thinking the same thing she is, because he's Lorcan and half the time it seems like he's reading minds. Her lips pucker instinctively, and she's torn between hating herself for what she's about to do, and hoping that she's doing the right thing.

"You don't want me to kiss you right now," he says, blunt as always, and she opens eyes that she didn't know that she had closed.

"I – why? Why don't I want you to?" she asks, her face smoothing out until no emotion is left but slightly thinner lips. Clearly, all her practice on Fred has paid off.

"No, I didn't phrase that right, I don't think. You – you don't _need_ me to kiss you right now. It would help you, yes, but also no," he pauses to consider his next point, and she can only hope that he'll tell her what she needs to do, then, if he isn't going to kiss her and make her feel protected again. She needs him to tell her what to do, because she needs some direction and she needs someone to tell her what that direction is, because she can feel herself fading and she's terrified. She needs to be alive, to be completely, wholly _alive_, because how else can Lysander be remembered? One day she'll lie down beside his grave and die beside him, she can feel it, but until then someone needs to keep his memory alive.

And really, she's utterly selfish as well, because she kind of wants to move on and doesn't know how, and feel guilty that she wants to. There's so much she needs and wants and wants and needs, and it tears her apart.

"You clutch at straws, Dominique, but they won't save you," a new voice says, floating out of the twined bushes and drifting towards them like a cloud. Lucy walks between them and a slips a hand into one of each of theirs, a friendly gesture that makes Dominique start and the guilt start anew. She knows – everyone knows – that Lucy and Lorcan are already like two halves of one person, even if they aren't technically together, and she has forgotten that in her quest to save herself from fading and Lysander from being lost from memory. What else has she forgotten?

"Yes," Lorcan continues, as if he and Lucy share the same thoughts. "You think you need me, but I'm no better off than you. He was my brother, in case you have forgotten."

"I have never forgotten that." And she never has, and never will.

"You attach yourself to Lorcan because he looks like Lysander," Lucy tells her, and Dominique flinches at the name. She is still not used to it being said aloud, especially in a voice as clear as a nightingale, and not the usual whisper. "Because you think that he will make you perfect. I know," she says, and her voice drops to a whisper. "He makes you feel perfect, doesn't he? But you don't need to be in love with him for him to help you."

"We want to help," Fred says, speaking up from where he has been standing, without notice, keeping an eye on Dominique as has become his custom. She sees her own guilt reflected in his eyes – guilt that after that one afternoon, he let her retreat back inside herself. Guilt that he didn't offer advice, didn't tell someone, anyone, that cousin Dominique wasn't holding up as well as she seemed to. "Tell us to help you, and we will."

She nods, and that seems to be all they need to hear. They stand in silence, the four of them, for what could be forever, before she break the silence with a torrent of words that pour through her lips from her heart. She mentions all the little things she loved about him, all the things she misses; how sometimes, she'll turn to say something and he won't be there, or she'll find herself feeling guilty for laughing, because he isn't there to share it. They join in, sometimes, reminiscing and offering advice, and sometimes letting her just talks for minutes on end without interruption. She doesn't cry this time, but she doesn't need to.

Later, when it is almost too dark to see, they curl up in the sand together like the children they once were, and she remembers why they are there in the first place.

"Lorcan?" she asks, Fred's large hand brushing her shoulder as he shifts to find a more comfortable spot.

"Yes?" he responds, his eyes trained again on the sky. Lucy has her head on his stomach, and seems perfectly at ease, though Dominique cannot tell whether she is awake or asleep.

"Why did you want to show me this?" she questions him, and rather than frowning in disappointment like she expects, the sliver of his face that she can see is smooth and patient.

"We used to sit out here and count the stars," he murmurs, his voice low and soft. "We would see how many we could name before we ran out of names, and then we just made up our own."

"We?" she asks, almost afraid to hear the answer, though she knows it already.

"Me – and Lysander."

"Lysander," she echoes, and it doesn't hurt to say his name. In time, though she does not know it, she will fall in love with the dead boy's twin, for reasons other than his eyes and his resemblance to his brother. She will say nothing then, because she has learnt that sometimes friendship can trump love, and it is true for her and Lorcan, because they both belong to someone else. Friendship is more than enough for them.

Fred snores, Lucy sighs, and Lorcan simply breathes, a harmony of friendship that lightens her heart with every sound.

She lets her gaze soar and watch the space above her, and suddenly the sky seems beautiful.

* * *

Reviews are, as always, complete and utter love, guys! Any suggestions on the next person?

I'm kind of unsure as to how this one turned out, so I'd love to hear what you thought! And I'm thinking of adding another chapter on the end, kind of like an epilogue esque thing, so your thoughts on that are appreciated =]

-Listen


	4. DominiqueScorpius

**a/n **Dedicated to PrincessPearl - merry christmas, my lovely, and I hope you actually like what I've written

* * *

"I don't know why they call it heartbreak. It feels like every other part of my body is broken too."

-Missy Altijd

* * *

**dominique and scorpius, falling apart.**

_twenty-three_

* * *

The petals strewn on the ground beside her are already starting to wilt under the hot sun, though everyone is so busy looking at the two lovers on the front dais that no one besides her has noticed. The air is thick and humid, causing her deep crimson dress to stick closely to her figure, sweat binding it to her skin like lacquer on a wooden table. Across the room, Victoire and Teddy murmur over the former's swollen baby, their hands clasped across it though their eyes remain trained on the pair. An aunt's sobs disturb the relative peace, and she hears Molly shush her as a nearby flock of birds begin a twittering song.

Her eyes are drawn again to the couple, who are resplendent in summer clothes the colour of sand that are at odds with the lush garden landscape of the greenhouse around them, but suit their personalities perfectly. It would seem strange if anyone else held their ceremony in a glass walled garden as they have done, but they have always loved beauty from places they have never seen but long to go, and this is the way they have chosen to recreate that splendour. She lingers on their clasped hands as they listen to the priest marry them beneath an arch of primroses and honeysuckle, careful not to betray her emotions, though she doubts anyone is looking.

She watches Lorcan mutter something into his bride's ear, envy surging through her in a motion she is all too familiar with these days. It's not just the fact that up until not too long ago she liked Lorcan as far more than just a friend – rather, it's the feeling that she should have been the one getting married, long ago when she was younger and far more cold-hearted, and now that possibility seems so far out of reach. Would she and Lysander have made it this far? She dismisses the thought almost immediately, because of course they would have, because she loved him, she still loves him, and they deserved the happy ending that was wrenched from their fingertips.

She itches to twist the silver band on her ring finger, because it's really the only thing of his she has left; the pearl ring he gave her the week before he died. Pearls for tears, she thinks bitterly, and clenches her hand where it is threaded through someone else's.

"Are you okay?" Scorpius whispers and she nods, retraining her eyes on the couple before them as they kiss, bonding themselves to each other forever in a way that is both frightening and enviable, though it is impossible to think that they won't make it. They are Lucy and Lorcan, a love story in themselves, though an unusual choice for prince and princess. The storybooks don't often find the heroine knee deep in freezing cold water, passing tadpoles to her prince charming to examine, as they had done the previous weekend.

The wedding is soon over, and she melts into the crowd in the way only she can, greeting people and kissing cheeks and carrying on a conversation without ever saying anything of substance, Scorpius constantly at her elbow.

She finds Lucy and Lorcan behind a beech tree, arms and fabric tangled in each other like they are lovers kept apart for eternity and only just meeting again. They are unashamed to be seen like this, in that lofty way they have always maintained, and Lucy smiles beatifically as they approach.

"Congratulations," Dominique says, directing her words towards Lucy, because when she says it to her cousin she means it.

"It's odd, isn't it? How quickly these things go by. Less than an hour ago, we were unmarried, and now we are. Strange," Lucy expounds, as if Dominique had never spoken.

"Strange indeed," Lorcan agrees, kissing his new bride swiftly, and Scorpius tugs on Dominique's arm and leads her away, relieving her from having to make small talk with the pair. She loves them, but she can't do it, even for them.

People come to speak with her and Scorpius, long-time friends, family and strangers, faces blurring and melding together, though a few remain clear in her mind.

"How long until you two get married yourselves?" one matronly lady from Lorcan's side asks impertinently, her smile a crack in her wrinkled face. Dominique resists the urge to roll her eyes, because she's supposed to be unfailingly polite, but they're only a few months into their relationship, and she doesn't think she'll ever end up married to Scorpius.

"We haven't discussed it yet. Excuse us," he says charmingly and steers her through the crowds with his hand resting on the small of her back. He leads her to a wooden bench beneath the shade cast by a broad tree, its leaves throwing shadowy patterns on the bright grass. They sit, and she looks up into his face, which is so delicately handsome that her heart aches, though it is his blonde hair that convinced her to say yes when he asked her to go out with him. She should break up with him, she knows, because as attracted to him as she is and no matter how much she appreciates his personality, it isn't fair to string him along when she's in love with two different boys, and neither of them is him; but she seems to have a talent for destruction, and a desperation to drag down any and every one else with her. She refuses to be alone again.

"I'm not stupid," he says out of the blue, jolting her out of her thoughts and back into the reality that is her life now. Her hand is still entwined in his, and she watches mutely as he turns their joined hands over, baring their pale palms to the sun.

"I never said you were," she replies, wondering what he's talking about this time. He is silent, seemingly thinking about what to say next. She doesn't like it. Before, silence meant perfection; now it speaks of all the things she doesn't know.

"Why did you say yes?" he asks, forehead creasing in sudden agitation, standing and dropping her hand to move into the sunlight. "When I asked you out, why did you agree?"

"Because I love you," she says, the practised words feeling bitter on her tongue, though they seem like the sweetest honey as they cascade from her lips.

"No, you don't," he cuts her off roughly, and her back stiffens, her chin rising until she is the picture of the perfect ice queen she used to be. Still longs to be, sometimes, because everything was simple back then. She was flawless, and everyone wanted to know what she was thinking, a privilege few ever had. Now, she is nothing but flaws patterned in angry marks on pale skin, a porcelain doll tied together with strings.

"You don't believe me?" She leans forward and crushes her lips to his, the beginning of a dance they have done so many times before, but this time seems different somehow. He tastes like ashes, a reminder of the never forgotten boy in the ground. Her lips meld with his, and she relaxes, thinking that he'll believe her, that they can continue in their masquerade with no consequences for the near future.

He pushes her away, and now she is hurt, angry, lost. Always lost. No, she doesn't love him, but he has never caught on to her charade before. Today should be no different. "You don't love me, Dominique," he sighs, solemn and tired. "I saw you looking at Lorcan today, and I realised – you have never, not in our one hundred and twenty seven days together, looked at me that way."

He has counted the days, she realises; their relationship meant more to him than she ever knew, and maybe they could have been something, someday, if he loves her this much. That possibility is nothing now, no more that a whisper in the winds as it blows through grass fields, no more than a single letter inked on a page scribbled over with words.

"It's not Lorcan," she counters with a lie that might not be a lie. "It's just – he looks a lot like Ly-" the name sticks in her throat, but Scorpius hears and understands her intention. His blonde hair catches the light, setting it on fire like a pale sky after sunrise, and she remembers Lysander's flaxen hair catching fire when they sat together in the tree tops, looking much like Scorpius does now.

"And that's better, is it? Knowing that my girlfriend still loves a dead man?" he whispers, and she sees his heart shatter in his eyes at the same time hers does, because he's hurt that she's admitted to loving someone else, and she's broken because no one will let her forget that Lysander is dead.

"Why can still try, can't we?" she begs, throat hoarse, pleading with him not to leave her, because she can't deal with the thoughts that haunt her when she's alone.

"No, we can't." The words hang in the air, burned into her mind, yet another rejection that she has never been able to handle. Ice queen Dominique of old wasn't formed from nowhere – chasing perfection so no one would tell her she was less than flawless had made her like that. Scorpius turns and walks away to join a knot of their friends near the honeysuckle arch, and she sees him fling an arm around Rose's shoulders with a pang. Sure, she didn't really love him, and sure, their relationship wasn't much, but he was hers for a time and she's always been a little too possessive for anyone's good.

She isn't really surprised when a familiar voice speaks words of comfort, its owner coming to stand beside her – she had begun to expect his presence, like a guardian angel that has never been to heaven.

"You'll be okay, Dom," he says, sitting next to her and resting his arm on the back of the bench they are seated on. The chattering group nearby moves away, and she relaxes somewhat. She doesn't mind Fred's consolation if no one is there to see her be weak. Enough people have seen her without her defences; there is no need to add to the number.

She leans into him and he takes the hint, pulling his arm down and curling it around her back. They are silent – the good kind of silent where there are no secrets, nothing she doesn't know, because Fred is like an open book, most days. They have done this often, she reflects; just the two of them alone, not really needing anyone else because the other is all they have.

"Do you ever wonder if we're going to end up alone, with just each other for company?" she asks, not quite joking, because if there's anyone she wouldn't mind not being alone with, it's Fred. He has always tried to save her from herself, and that is more than anyone has done for her. She can always forgive him for not being there that night when she knocked on his door, something she has never spoken of again since that afternoon in the attic.

"Would it be that bad?" he responds, smiling at her in a way that tells her he will always be there when she needs him. She can see with clarity the two of them in the years ahead, growing older and in his case, wiser, with his flowers decorating their beach home's walls. There would be water right outside, and a balcony, she decides, etched with roses and their names.

"Probably not," she says, and he seems to accept that as an answer. They lapse into silence again, the sun beating down on them like an old friend, and she pushes aside her heartbreak to enjoy the time with the only person she is sure will never leave her.

* * *

Please review - I love getting feedback for my writing, and I've invested a lot of time into this series.

My apologies for how late this addition is; my laptop crashed and I lost everything, so i had to restart again from scratch, which is why this chapter isn't as good as it should be.

Any guesses for who the next person is? =]

- Listen


	5. DominiqueBenjamin

**a/n **dedicated to _Vicky_ [incandescent dreams], as her encouragement got me to finally update this. And, as always, for _Kat_, whose anniversary was last week =]

there's a longer note at the end, explaining a few things - all that needs to be said right now is that the guy in this chapter is called Benjamin Hewitt, and he's a Muggle.

* * *

"Being happy doesn't mean that everything is perfect. It means that you've decided to look beyond the imperfections."

- Unknown

* * *

**dominique and benjamin, starting to learn.**

_twenty-five_

* * *

"Hey, I'm Benjamin."

"Dominique."

"Want to have coffee with me sometime?"

"Yes."

* * *

The waves lap softly against the shore, water spreading out over the sand and holding it close until letting it go at the very last second and falling back into the sea. Two pairs of eyes watch the waves pull up onto the beach again, only to return to the mass of water curling around the coastline, the give and take of the water like a pair of lovers reuniting again and again.

The dark clouds roll across the sky, covering the moon and stars and then releasing them to let their light shine down on the quiet beach, highlighting the pair of figures entwined in the sand below the sky.

"Thank you for bringing me out here," he says, his voice deep and husky in her ear, and she shifts into his hold, her legs delicately splayed out in front of her and crossed at the ankles. He doesn't move for a moment, seeming surprised that she's chosen to come closer to him, because she's never made the first move before and neither of them sure why she's doing it now.

"It's my home – aren't I supposed to bring you here after a while?" Dominique replies with a teasing lilt to her voice, leaning her head on his shoulder and staring out at their section of ocean rising and falling in the moonlight. He grins, and she smiles softly in return, her barriers completely down. She trusts him, she realises in that moment, and the thought scares her beyond belief; that she could trust anyone enough to be herself with them, even if that person is her boyfriend. There are only two people in the world that she has trusted this much, and one of them is dead.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks after a silence, and she wants to lie and say 'nothing', because that's what she would have done before and she knows how easy it would be to fall back into that pattern again. But she's promised herself she'll try this time, because Scorpius' eyes when he broke up with her still haunt her, and she's too selfish to resign herself to being alone forever, away from the danger of breaking anyone's heart again.

"Us," she replies simply, and she feels the hand entwined in hers stiffen for a moment before he speaks.

"Only good things, I hope," he says cheerily, and her hand clutches his more tightly in answer, though she hopes she's just imagining the insecurity in his voice, because he's supposed to be the strong one of the two of them. He's the first person in a long time that she's said yes to, after the disaster that was the end of her relationship with Scorpius, and it took her a year to learn how to start trusting herself again, a year with hollow memories and strangers in her bed to keep herself from feeling too alone. And then he waltzed into Victoire's coffee shop with a smile and eyes only for her from the moment they meant, and she began to think that maybe she could try a proper relationship again. She won't be a damsel in distress, not by any means, and she won't let him save her - she wants to try and save herself this time - but there are moments when she thinks she wouldn't mind if he's the one to catch her the next time she falls.

"I want to show you something," she says, untangling herself from him and standing up, her bare feet pressing into the soft sand of the beach outside Shell Cottage. He follows suit, and she kisses him gently, her lips lingering on his for longer than they should, because her resolve is crumbling like the sand beneath her feet. Eight months together isn't long enough to give so much of herself to him, she knows that, but she's beginning to feel like Queen Bee Dominique again and she wants to make her own choices.

She smiles against his lips, her decision made, because maybe it's reckless and she's officially lost her mind, but she trusts him and he deserves to know, really. She pulls him towards the house and through the open front door, thankful that her parents are at the Burrow for the night.

The light switch is hidden behind a panel in the hallway, one of the few things about this house she still has trouble with, and once she finally pulls it open and clicks on the light, she turns around to find him grinning at her, he expression conveying all the words he doesn't need to say.

"Yes?" she asks, but she's smiling too, and she doesn't rebuff him when he pulls her into his arms, though in the back of her mind she knows she should really be doing what she came here for.

"You're so cute," he whispers, and she's torn between continuing to smile and feeling offended at the slight condescension she imagines is in his tone. She swivels in his embrace and raises an eyebrow pointedly at him until he apologises, laughter clear in his voice. "You had something you wanted to show me?"

"Right." She steps away from him, her delicate hand sliding into his calloused in the same movement, and she remembers the last time this felt so natural, like breathing air or dancing or smiling until her cheeks hurt and she forgot that she wasn't supposed to laugh at dirty jokes or other people's misfortunes unless she caused them. She catches him looking at her and realises that she hasn't moved any further, and she wonders whether she should tell him about Lysander. Later, maybe. Not now. Not just yet.

She tugs him upstairs, the oak floors smooth beneath her bare feet, and she reminds herself to go downstairs and clean all the sand off the floor before her parents get home. She might be twenty-five with her own job and her own life, but she technically lives here after Fred moved out of their shared apartment to move to Australia and Dominique moved home, and she knows how much her mother hates sand in the house. Even if they do live next door to a beach.

Her attic bedroom is the same as ever, the window painted almost shut with only a crack between sill and window after her attempted painting of her room when she was nine, which she loved so much she refused to allow her parents to fix it with magic. It was something _she_ had done; it was hers, and that made it more special than magic.

Now, sitting down on the edge of her bed with her boyfriend's hand clasped his hers, she wishes she had removed all sign that she was ever a child, so she could continue being perfect as long as the illusion held. But perhaps it's better this way, she thinks, and pulls her wand from the top of her bedside table.

"Ben, I have something to tell you," she says, exhaling deeply and fiddling with the wand in her hands, its mahogany sheen glinting in the soft light streaming from the moon outside and the lamp on her desk.

"You've said that," he teases, but his hold on her hand tightens and betrays his worry.

"I'm a wizard," she blurts, and the wand sparks briefly silver, though she is too intent on her Muggle boyfriend's expression to notice.

"A... wizard. A wizard. A wizard like in Buffy with chanting and spells that fail a lot, or like a pointy hat kind of a wizard?" he asks, his words tumbling together and holding a clear note of disbelief. She can't really blame him, but she loves him for not running away as soon as she said it.

"Neither, really," she responds, though she doesn't really know what a 'Buffy' is. "We're more of a 'wand' type of wizard. See?" she questions, holding out her wand for him to inspect, and she feels rather like a mother presenting her first child to her husband, as if he's judging the both of them.

"My girlfriend's a wizard. My girlfriend, who I love," she feels herself thrill at the admission, though he says it often, "is a_ wizard_, and she hasn't told me until now for some reason-"

"-we're not actually allowed to," she interjects.

"-but she can do magic. _Magic_. You can do magic, can't you?" he asks, breaking off his rambling to himself and turning to her, green eyes conveying a myriad emotions that she can't name, merged together as they are.

"Obviously. I'm not a Squib, you know," she tells him, pulling her hand away from his and ignoring his confused expression at her colloquialism. She points her wand towards her head - Benjamin's eyes are shadowed with fear - and forces herself to breathe. He's taking it rather well, but she really doesn't want him to freak out on her. In the last few hours, she's realised just how much she would miss him if he left like all the others, leaving her alone again.

"_Multicorfors_," she intones, and feels the familiar ripple make its way across her scalp and down her spine, turning her usually blonde locks into a bright shade of Weasley red, the colour she used the most immediately after learning this spell. She had always wanted to feel like a true Weasley, rather than a lonely blonde in a sea of reds and browns.

"Wow," Benjamin breathes, and her eyes flick to him, gauging his reaction. She sees nothing but wonder and excitement and love, and she thanks Fate or the gods or intuition that the person she chose to reveal her secret to is as easy-going as they come. "Can you do me?"

She grins, flicking her wand towards his hair and muttering the incantation again, his hair shifting from auburn to her usual shade of gold. She sees his eyes light up as he catches sight of himself in her mirror, and she stumbles back as he launches himself from her bed to catch her in his arms, their laughter mingling as they fall to the ground.

"Do something else," he begs her, and she acquiesces, exultant in the feeling that everything has worked out the way she has always wanted it to, with a boy and a girl in their own little paradise. The sky gets steadily darker outside as their time together progresses, spells and smiles overlapping as they dance together around her attic bedroom, pausing every now and then for her to perform a spell or for them to kiss, more secure than ever in their affections.

The evening culminates in more than half of her room being turned a vivid shade of orange that reminds her of her Uncle Ron's childhood bedroom, and only ends when she trips over a tuft of carpeting and flies backwards, the frame on her bedside table shuddering in the aftermath and falling to the ground, cracking the frame.

She glances over at the frame, not duly concerned, but she freezes as she sees the inhabitant of the picture, a Muggle one taken on a whim at a fair he had dragged her to one summer. Lysander.

"Dom, who's that?" he asks, an unspoken _and why is he there_ attached to the end of his sentence, but she doesn't need him to speak it aloud for her to understand. He has the most expressive eyes of anyone she has ever met, and though he seems mostly curious, it's blatantly obvious that he wonders who this boy is, that a mere picture of him can drain all laughter from a room.

"That's Lysander. H-he's my ex-boyfriend," she tells him, and she feels tears pricking her eyes at the sound of his name, because even six years after the fact she still hasn't been able to say it around anyone but Lorcan and Fred, but only because they are the few who understand.

"Why is he here, I mean..." he trails off, picking up the frame in his scarred hand, the other leaving hers to turn it around so he can read the inscription on the back. She sees the moment that he notices the words, his green eyes widening. "RIP... Rest in peace. Is he-"

"Dead," she finishes, and she will keep herself together by pure strength of mind if she has to, because it's been a long day but she's made it through, and she isn't crashing now.

"Oh, Dominique," he murmurs, and it's so unlike his normal voice that her surprise overcomes her realisation that her cheeks are damper than they should be. "Dom-" he turns to face her, and maybe it's the look in his eyes or maybe it's the way he's saying her name and not moving away from her, not backing down even though he knows she's still not quite whole. A tiny shard of her heart will always belong to the blonde boy with the hazel eyes and cheeky smile, and his image blurs with the face of the man in front of her, the one who still seems to love her in spite of all he knows.

His arms go around her again and she leans into him, and they fit together perfectly as she cries at last, and maybe this time will mean something more than all the others, because he knows nothing about who she was and what she's done, and he doesn't care about what little he does know. She tells him about Lysander: the first time they met, the first time they kissed, how she saw him as he died - and for the first time, it doesn't hurt to say his name.

He kisses her when she's finished, holding her to him as if he can help her fight her battles and patch them both up afterwards, and she thinks that maybe she'll allow him to catch her, just this once.

* * *

"Dominique?"

"Yes?"

"Will you marry me?"

"Yes."

* * *

**author's note: **

First of all, thank you so much for reading this far, and I hope that you review! It's always lovely to receive feedback - but please no favouriting without reviewing =]

Secondly, I'm so sorry it's taken me so long to get an update out. My Dominique!muse has been terrible lately, and though I had most of this chapter planned out, I ended up completely re-doing it three times. Originally, Fred made a cameo, and then he decided to move to Australia, so Albus and Victoire replaced him, and it was all a huge mess, lets leave it at that ;)

Thirdly, I have the epilogue and the majority of the next chapter planned out, so there shouldn't be this kind of wait next time, which a little luck!

So yeah, please review! I love everyone's reviews so much =D

Don't worry, the next chapter won't be boring weddingness - there'll be drama, promise. Any guesses as to the next person?

- Listen


	6. Dominique&Cecelia

**a/n **dedicated to _Blue_ [BlueEyes444], because it's her birthday and FF anniversary next week! I love you, honey - and don't worry, I've got another few things for you.

Oh, and, this is not overtly a fem-slash piece, to anyone who might think that it is because of the labelling.

* * *

"Be that self which one truly is." -Soren Kierkegaard

"It is not flesh and blood but the heart which makes us mothers and daughters." -Johann Schillers [adapted]

* * *

**dominique and cecelia, starting anew**

_twenty-six_

* * *

The ring on the string around her neck is cold against her skin, the chain long enough for it to hang flush against her heart. She feels strange, wearing two engagement rings, one of them belonging to someone who will never see it again.

It's been seven years since he died, and she hasn't learnt how to be herself without someone holding her hand every step of the way. Lysander had once shown her how to be someone other than the ice queen Dominique she had forced herself to be, but without him it was hard to keep this new self together. Once he was gone - had left her all alone, her mind whispers - Fred had helped her, shown her that she could still be loved, even if she was a little more broken up inside that everyone else. But now he had left her too, had moved halfway across the world to marry a girl he met through random chance and an unaddressed letter, and Lorcan was travelling with Lucy, and Scorpius was engaged to Rose. And Benjamin...

He always wants to be the one to save her. But she's trying so hard to stand by herself on her own two feet, and she still wasn't getting anywhere because she knows that if she starts to fall, he will always be there to catch her and everything would be okay. So she simply stands still, unable to move forward or back, always feeling like there's something missing.

It's a year since they met ("Want to have coffee with me sometime?" "Yes."), when she approaches him, her eyes cold and hard and her fingers curling into the palm of her hand as if the pain can give her what she thinks she needs without hurting anyone else. He takes her hand and she tries to smile, because she's still in love with him, but she needs to do this for herself, and for him, because it isn't fair to ask him to love someone who is broken and still half in love with someone else.

"You're breaking up with me, aren't you?" he asks her without preamble, and she wonders with a smile turned bitter if she was always so easy to read, or if it's just him.

"I love you," she says, and there's a finality in her voice that makes her shudder, as if until this moment she hadn't really decided one way or another. "But I can't do this right now. It's not you, it's me," she adds, and she questions how such a clichéd line summarised her life so perfectly, because it's always her that messes things up.

"I love you too," he tells her, his hand releasing hers, and she watches as he walks away without another word, her engagement ring clutched tightly in his hand, though she can't see it as he goes out her front door and disappears into the night. She immediately doubts her decision, and dashes out the door - but he isn't there, having melted into the darkness as well as any witch.

The days that follow are hard, minutes and hours and countless moments blurring into one another as she explains to her family that the wedding isn't happening anymore ("We're over," she tells them, and doesn't say another word). She goes to work at Victoire's café and tries to smile at each and every person while waving away her sister's questions. It's been three weeks, twelve hours, and fourteen seconds since the break up when she decides she needs a completely clean break, and stops waitressing. Percy offers to get her an internship as a translator for the Ministry, and she accepts, because how else is she going to pay for her new apartment - which she loves because it's hers alone, empty rooms and peeling paint and all.

She tries not to count the moments, and fails, which hurts so much more when she remembers another boy whose heart she broke, who used to count the days like her; but she let him go, and now he's happy like she used to be. Except she never used to be happy, not really, not when she pretended and lied without a second thought, and cut scars into her side because the pain was the only thing that made her feel alive. She was a shadow of her older sister, and then a shadow of herself, one that clung to other people's affection and opinions like a million lifelines that could kill her or save her, and it wasn't until she turned fifteen and thought it might be possible to fall in love, that she cared which way it went.

She remembers her mistakes far more clearly than anyone else ever will, and some days she hates herself for pushing away the little bit of happiness she had found for herself. Other days, she wonders why she let herself get in so deep, when all along she knew their love story wouldn't have a happy ending. She isn't allowed to have a happy ending, she knows that.

So she tries and fails to stop counting the days, but she pushes on and finds that she kind of enjoys her job, and loves the freedom of being alone in her own place, even if she still locks herself in the bathroom and lies against the tiles to cry. Nearly twenty years of doing so has made it a habit, from the first time when she was six and Victoire didn't want to play with her - until now, on the other side of twenty six, and still all alone. But time is kind, and eventually she blames herself a little less and excuses her mistakes a little more, and she doesn't say no when Fred suggests in a letter that she visit Lysander's grave.

She's never been there before, afraid that it would hurt too much and send her spiralling back to where she was, but now she doesn't really have a whole lot left to lose, and a part of her wonders if it'll help her figure out just how broken she is, so she can fix it. She stays there for hours, her bare left hand pressed against the cool stone of his grave as she sits in silence; and when she leaves, the engagement ring he gave her long ago lies buried in the dirt.

For once, she feels at peace.

* * *

The letter lies across her bed, four simple sentences from a friend almost forgotten but still remembered fondly - Jenna, the one person she kept in contact with after leaving Hogwarts, simply because at the time she needed a bridesmaid that looked good in yellow, and Jenna was dating her cousin Roxanne. Afterwards, when she was left alone and refused to talk to anyone, their correspondence stopped, until Fred told her to get in touch with her friends again. It's always Fred who helps her, she thinks as she slides a shirt over her head.

They still aren't close, at least not on Dominique's side, but they've become closer since she broke up with Benjamin, because she can't help but cling onto someone when they're there. She's not quite ready to be alone, and Jenna is the only one of her friends who she was ever partially real with, back when she was just a famous name attached to a plastic face and forged feelings.

The request stills comes as a surprise to her, though she can understand the sentiment behind it - it's hard to go through anything alone, and Dominique never fails to be brutally honest if the situation calls for it. She supposes that choosing a child to adopt is a situation that calls for support and honesty, and picks up her wand from her bedside table. With a crack, she disappears.

The building is modest, the words 'Creevey Home' embellished in slightly faded writing across the entry, and she briefly wonders what her life would have been like if she'd ended up here, in the orphanage for magical children, but the red-headed woman standing by the doorway is what holds her attention.

"Jenna," she greets calmly, and accepts the energetic hug the woman gives her because she's trying to be perfect now, and perfect people hug their friends without complaint and do everything for them and try to forget any mistakes in their past. And because she's Dominique and can never let anything go, she tries to forget how much Benjamin loved Jenna, with her smiles and way of thinking, because she's already questioning her decision enough, now that she's on her way to being whole for the first time.

"Dominique! Oh, I'm so nervous, thank you for coming - want to go in?" Jenna babbles, drawing back and taking her hand as they proceed into the house. Moments after stepping into the hall, something barrels into her and grabs at her legs, and she steps back, bumping her head against the doorframe as Jenna looks on with a grin. She straightens, one hand curved around her neck to press at the spot on her head, and looks down.

"This is Cecelia. She's six," an unfamiliar voice says, but Dominique only has eyes for the little girl with her hands wrapped around her left leg, her face turned away. "Sweetie?" the voice prompts, and then turns apologetic. "I'm sorry. She's a little overenthusiastic."

"You're pretty," the girl says with a voice that is sweet and clear and innocent, and Dominique almost envies her for not knowing what heartbreak feels like.

The girl finally looks up, chubby fingers entwined with each other around Dominique's leg as she stares, and Dominique has to hold back a gasp as she sees eyes that are perfect replicas of the boy she once loved.

"So, how can I help you two? We often have lesbian couples come into adopt or foster, so that's no object here, if I'm not being too forward." the other woman interrupts the moment, and Dominique forces herself not to glare. She just wants a moment to stare and speculate and wonder, and possibly get the girl to let go, because she thinks her circulation is being cut off.

Jenna smiles as she replies, "We know, but that's not an issue today. I'd like to personally adopt, and my friend-"

"Is also here to possibly foster or adopt," she interjects, the words spilling out of her before she even thinks them through properly; but she's desperately lonely and a child wouldn't leave her, and Cecelia has eyes that remind her of happiness. She kind of doesn't care that her motives are selfish, because she's an ex-Slytherin and she's Dominique Weasley, and she's so close to regaining the part of her that gets whatever she wants. "Separately, though," she adds, and tries to ignore the weird look Jenna sends her, though she doesn't say anything.

"Well, there's a bit of a lengthy process to go through - we like to have our adoptive parents go through a three month bonding process with the child, particularly if only one of them has magical blood. Am I right in assuming that both of you are magical? Because we actually aren't allowed to send these children to non-magical homes," says the woman awkwardly, who she assumes is the receptionist - called Maisie, if her name tag is anything to go by.

"We're both magical - both half-bloods," Jenna tells her, and continues talking, but Dominique doesn't hear what she says, too busy taking the opportunity to look at the blonde-haired child standing on her foot.

"Hi," she whispers, her mouth barely moving, though whether it's because of shock or her habit when whispering, she doesn't really know.

"Hi. What's your name?" the girl asks, and Dominique winces because her voice is a little too loud - but, she reminds herself, all children are like this - Lysander was like this, when he wasn't making her heart beat too fast with his intensity. And if she's really going to do what she had all too rashly suggested just moments ago, she really needs to get used to the fact that kids can't be contained and put in a little box, just like her, even if it's in different ways.

"I'm Domi," she tells her, because it feels right to let this girl know the nickname that has laid dusty and unused for almost eight years.

"Will you play with me, Domi?" Cecilia asks, and she nods and follows her down the hallway without looking back at the other two women still deep in discussion, because it's hard not to remember being six herself and playing in the bottom of the garden with a boy her age with hazel eyes and blonde hair.

The rest of the afternoon is spent going over paperwork and discussing terms and trying to figure out how much she wants to do this, but it all works itself out eventually. She comes back to the orphanage nearly every day to visit, to talk and play games like she's still six years old, and eventually she falls in love with this little girl for herself, not just because she reminds her so much of everything she's lost. Cecelia moves in with her on her twenty-seventh birthday, and she has to admit that it's kind of fun to tell her family that she has a daughter now. She watches her grow up as if they're really related by blood, and can't contain her smiles when strangers on the street comment on how much they look alike.

She lives her life with the love and the happiness she's been searching for, because she's learnt how to stand on her own two feet and now it's possible for her to love, totally and completely. She doesn't feel quite so broken now.

* * *

**author's note:**

Wow! You guys, this is the final chapter!

Thank you all so much for following me this far, those of you still reading - this is the first completed multichapter I've ever done, so yeah, that's kind of exciting. I'd love for you all to review, and I apologise for any lack of quality in this chapter; I had a lot I needed to fit in here.

Other notes: originally, this was much more angsty, but I felt bad killing off Dominique's biological child, so that didn't end up happening. I might write it though, someday, but this Domi needs more of a happy ending, I've put her through so much.

Also, the Maisie mentioned in this chapter is Maisie Cattermole, from Spinning, who ended up at the Creevey Home, and the Creevey Home itself is run by Demelza Robins and her daughter with Colin Creevey, Bridget (yes, to those readers of 'Reality', that is the child she's pregnant with at the end). Jenna is Jenna Robinson from 'these endless days of summer', Roxanne's girlfriend and the famous Quidditch player that Louis fawns over.

I have so many headcanons for the NextGen and their parents, so it entertained me to weave some of them into this story ;)

The first chapter has been edited, by the way, to clarify some of the more confusing pieces and tighten up the grammar, though the plotline has stayed basically the same.

Well, that's the end of this too long author's note! Please review! =]

-Listen


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